When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient, Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread.
What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation, When compared with the gentle piper's tread?
And she came in, threw out the mantle's edges, Declined to me with a sincere heed.
I say to her, "Did you dictate the Pages Of Hell to Dante?"
She answers, "Yes, I did."